


Sweet The Sting

by cellard00rs



Series: The Curse of Connection Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Language, M/M, Magic, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Masturbation, Sex, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:39:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5744173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is cursed. John offers a cure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet The Sting

**Author's Note:**

> Written after the conclusion of the First Series/Season

"Prognosis, Doctor?"

"Well, your temperature is unquestionably high, close to feverish, and your heart rate accelerated, so...I'd say it's serious."

"How serious?"

"I don't think it will kill you, but it can't be _good_ for you. I certainly wouldn't recommend staying this way."

"What _do_ you recommend then?" Sherlock asked tersely.

John sighed, "I suppose...follow the instructions?"

"You expect me to give in to some psychotic woman's demands!"

"Sherlock," John said as soothingly as possible, "I don't think you have any choice. You've had a, um, well, a, um-"

"John, not only are you a medical man but you've served in the military! For god's sake, you can _say_ erection."

He licked his lips, "Yeah, okay, I can say it, of course. I just...don't want to."

Sherlock groaned and rubbed at his eyes, "You're wrong. I am going to die."

"Oh, come off it! No one has ever died from an-an..." John, still unable to say it, merely waved at the blanket pooled over Sherlock's lap. Sherlock sat on the sofa in their flat, his coat off, shirt loose and unbuttoned down to his navel, sleeves rolled up. He had on slacks, but John was quite positive that beneath the blanket the belt was unbuckled and the fly completely unzipped.

John sat opposite him on the coffee table and he shifted uncomfortably as he picked up where he left off, "Anyway, no one's _died_ from one before as far as I know."

Sherlock merely grunted - it had actually come to that. Monosyllabic grunting. Lovely. The letter that had been slipped beneath their door hours ago rested next to John and he picked it up, reading it again, "This is cryptic at best, but I think it's pretty clear what you need to do."

"It's not what _I_ need to do," Sherlock muttered and winced as he did his covert best to adjust himself, "If it was something _I_ needed to do, this would have been fixed ages ago."

John frowned, read it again, then his eyebrows rose, "Oh. Oh! Don't...don't know how I missed this bit."

"You missed it because you're an idiot."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"That was sarcasm."

"I'm aware."

"Hmm, yes, but not aware enough to think to yourself, 'maybe I shouldn't reject that woman's advances as harshly as humanly possible'."

"John, the case was solved, she'd provided the information we required. I didn't see the point in stringing her along further."

"Guess you do now, considering she's cursed you."

"I am _not_ cursed. Don't be ridiculous."

John waved the letter at him, "That's not what this says."

"Somehow she poisoned me. Obviously. Some concoction that has caused-"

"Whatever it is," John interrupted, "It's a serious problem. How long have you been like this? How long have you been sitting on the sofa? I'll tell you - too long. No, you've got a fever and the cure is most definitely not more cowbell."

Sherlock's face at this last remark was priceless.

"It's a joke. Sarah...she...showed me this clip. On the web. It was funny..." John had started off his explanation chuckling weakly but as Sherlock's face remained impassive he started to stall, finally settling on a quiet, "Never mind."

Sherlock just shook his head, repeating his earlier pronouncement, "I'm going to die."

John cleared his throat, read the letter again, then, as casually as possible, said, "Okay, well, it basically says here the only cure is for you to have someone-ah-take care of your...situation for you. So...we just...need to do that."

"Hmm, yes, I imagine there are people lined up around the block _dying_ to give me a handjob." Sherlock said this in such a deadpanned manner that John actually did a double take.

Finally John recovered enough to speak, "It...can't be that hard to find someone..."

"Yes, let's just call up Lestrade, shall we? Or maybe Mrs. Hudson, though her response will be, 'I'm your landlady, not your-'."

"Stop!" John cut him off desperately, "Please!"

Sherlock smirked dryly, "There. At last you seem to understand the gravity of my predicament. As I quite appropriately surmised, I'm going to die, because there is no way this issue is ever going to be resolved. Thus I will be unable to leave this flat, nay, even this sofa, any time in the near future."

"Well, you always said sleeping, eating, and breathing were boring, so-"

"Yes, thank you, John. Throwing my previous statements back in my face comforts me to no end. However, I would ask that perhaps you make my eulogy a little more heartwarming."

"Stop being so dramatic!" He returned waspishly.

"Tell you what, I'll make you an offer, when _you_ have an erection that has lasted for well over an hour, I promise I'll let you be as dramatic as you like. Sound fair?"

John sighed heavily.

There was a long, thick silence.

At last, John spoke, eyes darting about, "There is...one way..."

"This is something _actually_ helpful, I hope?"

John's response was mumbled so deeply under his breath that Sherlock's head fell back, eyes on the ceiling as he let out a long aggravated groan, "John, please, it's been a very trying day. The least you could do is speak clearly."

"...me."

"What was that?"

John closed his eyes, spoke again on a whispered breath, "Me. I...I could do it."

Sherlock blinked, positive he must have misheard, "You?"

"Yes." John exhaled deeply, opening his eyes to meet Sherlock's, stirring up all the courage he could muster, " _I_ could take care of it for you."

"You want to-?"

"It would be strictly professional, you understand? I am a Doctor, so-"

"So, what? You're offering me a medicinal handjob?"

"Can you please stop saying that word?"

"...medicinal blowjob?"

" _Sherlock_!"

"What?"

John rubbed at his face, "This is crazy."

"I agree."

"And a bad idea."

"Most assuredly."

"Forget I even mentioned it."

"Forgotten." Sherlock said but as John saw him sitting there, all flushed and twitchy and looking pathetically miserable, he shook his head, cursing lightly before saying "No, no, we can't just...forget it. It's crazy, yeah, but...it's the only option. It's either this or death."

"I chose death."

"Sherlock..."

"Don't worry, all joking aside, I'm sure the eulogy you deliver will be lovely. Don't let Mycroft say a word. Not. One. Word. I want my funeral to have some dignity for god's sake."

"Sherlock," John scooted closer to him, "Let me do this for you. We don't...it'll just stay between us."

"John..."

John, curious, reached out a hand to brush along Sherlock's knee. The sound the other man let out at the merest touch bordered on obscene. He leaned into as if unable to help himself. The contact was brief and when John drew his hand away Sherlock looked almost pained.

"You need this, Sherlock," John replied, trying to fervently ignore how breathless he sounded, "You need me. Please."

Sherlock's eyes drifted closed and he nodded, "Very well."

 

§

 

Sherlock was insistent on certain rules in regard to the whole affair.

For one thing, he was adamant that John confirm that his future actions were being performed not out of pity nor out of some bizarre sense of duty or friendship. That they were, in fact, merely being done for Sherlock's physical well being as well as the realization that there was simply no other alternative. Next, he demanded that John not look at him nor his genitals for the duration and that the room be suitably darkened. It was late afternoon, so the sun was well on its' way to setting, but he had John draw the curtains and, as he did so, he said, "I understand why you're asking for this. I do. But it occurs to me that if I can't, um, see what I'm doing that that might actually make this more awkward."

"How so?"

"Well, I don't exactly relish the idea of grouping around blindly until I catch hold of your-your-"

"John, just say it!"

"Erection! Dick! Penis! Cock! Fuck, are you happy?" John snapped, wishing he wouldn't blush. Really. At this point he should be well past that.

"We will be opposite one another here on the floor. I will take hold of your wrist and lead you to where you need to be. Trust me, it will not take you long to find it. I assure you, my anatomy is much like every other males. After that, it shouldn't be much of a mystery. Frankly, I doubt it will even take long. Which is excellent, as once this is over, we can pretend this whole sordid business never took place and finally get on with the rest of our lives."

And this was the first and most important rule Sherlock had insisted upon: That they act as if this never, ever happened. It was not be referred to or spoken of again. John was more than happy with this. In fact, to him, it was of the utmost importance. Still, since they were currently allowed to discuss it, "Are you sure you want to do this on the floor? You could just stay on the sofa or we could-"

"The floor is perfectly suitable. It would be best if I was on my knees." John rigidly ignored how his stomach dropped at those words. Sherlock, none the wiser, continued as he carefully readjusted himself to that very position, blanket still encasing him, "I would recommend the same for you, but if you fear your leg will be a deterrent in the proceedings, you can certainly arrange yourself differently."

John swallowed, "No. Um, should be fine."

"Good. Now, as soon as you select the music, we can begin."

Another rule - there was to be no speaking. No names, no words, nothing. Zip. There would be some sounds - obviously, realistically, Sherlock admitted (reluctantly, for him) that he couldn't help that - but he promised to keep them to a minimum. Then, in his usual stroke of brilliance, he proposed that they use music as a cover.

John had been skeptical at first, remarking that it made everything seem all that more intimate, but Sherlock had been adamant. Music would disguise any sounds and was the better alternative than the ear phones he had initially proposed to which John had declined. John looked through the collection of vinyl (vinyl!) available. The turntable had been hastily borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, as neither John nor Sherlock had had anything else they could play music on. Oh, they could have used their computers, surely, but according to Sherlock the sound quality would not have been sufficient.

So John had had to go downstairs and make up some flimsy excuse as to why he had to burrow it -offering a weak 'I need something to listen to while I do some spring cleaning'. Mrs. Hudson, blissfully ignorant, had sweetly offered both the turntable as well as some albums. John had had to trudge it all upstairs while politely rebuffing her offers to help him. The last thing he needed was for her to come inside the flat and see Sherlock in his current state. The selection varied - mostly stage musicals and classical pieces - neither something John could see himself listening to while he carried out this service. The musicals because he would laugh and the classical because what they were about to do seemed, well, not so classy. Finally he settled on a soft contemporary album that he could only assume Mrs. Hudson had purchased on a whim. He clicked the needle into place and settled the volume knob to an appropriate level.

He rubbed his hands together, letting out a deep breath, palms sweating and really, he felt completely out of his depth. It was if he had been regressed back to his teenage years. He felt graceless and lost and the only thing that helped, oddly, was Sherlock's imperious commands, "John, if it's not too inconvenient, I would like to get this over with before the end of this century."

John walked over to Sherlock and, swallowing thickly, was about to settle down when Sherlock snapped his fingers, "Ah! wait! Lubrication! Be a good man and grab the tube out of the biscuit jar, would you?"

"The-? Why is it-?" John just shook his head, beyond words, as he went to the kitchen and, indeed, found a tube of lubricant in the biscuit jar. The porcelain biscuit jar that Ms. Hudson had bought them that past Christmas. The one covered with overly happy animated cartoon animals. Thank god he hadn't wanted a biscuit recently - he would have been welcome to a rude awakening. He came back to the room and half expected Sherlock to explain why there was lubricant in the biscuit jar of all places. He really should have known better. Instead, Sherlock looked up at him impatiently, "Well? Don't just stand there!"

John let out a world weary sigh and sank to his knees opposite Sherlock. He licked his lips and squeezed out a good amount from the tube to coat one hand and tried his level best not to panic. The room was thrown in deep shadow, but he could still see well enough to make out Sherlock's face, which was drawn and edgy. He eyed John almost hungrily and John could hear his own heartbeat loud in his ears. He came closer, eyes settling off into the distance over Sherlock's shoulder as he offered his wrist, eyes closing, as Sherlock took it.

John concentrated on breathing, he concentrated on the darkness behind his eyelids, he concentrated on the deep beats of the music, he concentrated on anything but the knowledge of what he was about to touch. And then he felt it. Soft, hard skin and hot, so hot. Full and thick and...not as bad as he had thought. Weird, yes. Almost otherworldly, to be sure. But...not as bad as he had thought. He certainly didn't feel as if he had somehow been transformed or deranged by the experience. He was touching another man's cock and the world hadn't imploded so...hooray?

Of course, he still had yet to, for lack of a better description, give Sherlock a good wank. But it was something of a comfort to know he wasn't going to go screaming and crying from the room. He had, distinctly in the back of his mind, feared that as a real possibility. Sherlock breathed out, the sound so full of relief that John felt momentarily sorry for him. He pushed it away quickly. He had promised no pity.

Still, it was a bit heartening to know that this truly was helping. In fact, he was so encouraged by the response, that he sat up and carefully eased closer, his hand gently taking a better grip. Another sound tried to escape Sherlock but he swallowed it and John, not wanting to drag this out, started experimenting with moving his hand. His eyebrows drawing together as his ineptitude became clear.

He hadn't the faintest idea how to do this. He had done this for himself and he had had women do it to him, certainly, but to do it for someone else was overwhelmingly odd. He couldn't quite figure out the best approach. How to angle his hand or how to move and eventually Sherlock let out an exasperated noise, his hand covering John's and, okay, he hadn't been prepared for that. At all.

John's breath hitched as their fingers met, dry against slick, and he felt a sudden, unexpected stab of lust right in the center of his body. His eyes squeezed shut tighter and he tried to explain it away. Tried to reclassify it. It couldn't have possibly been that. Not lust. Not desire. Not anything.

Sherlock's fingers slipped over his, slid over them, almost entwining in a way, as he showed him what he wanted. Demonstrating the up and down motion, tightening when he wanted more pressure. John bit his bottom lip and started mimicking the movements. Somehow John's senses became unnaturally heightened. He could pick up on every sound Sherlock made - every little desperate breath, every little injured whimper. Oh god, the man was _whimpering_. John was sure of it and finally he couldn't help himself.

He broke one of the rules.

John opened his eyes and looked straight at Sherlock.

It was breathtaking.

Part of him felt a deep disappointment that Sherlock didn't look grotesque right now. Or ridiculous. Or anything other than, well, breathtaking. No, worse, beautiful. Christ - the man had the indecency to look _beautiful_ while this was happening. His whole face should have been an awkward mess. Too angular, too off putting. But instead his face seemed softer somehow, his eyes tightly shut, dark eyelashes fanned against his skin. A blush across the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, lips just barely parted as he panted.

He seemed more...colourful. More real. More accessible. Not like he normally was as he dashed about, showing off his sharp intellect, spouting out observations, spearing people left and right with his words, his gestures. Here he was...approachable. Here he was touchable. He was...he looked...desirable.

 _Fuck_ , John's mind lamented, _fuck, fuck, fuck_...

The man looked _desirable_ to him.

Discovering attraction at this stage of the game was just...so not fair. What was worse was when his eyes cast downwards, when he caught sight of what his hand was doing. He swore he could feel the flow of his blood as it pumped through his veins, his entire nervous system sparking, surging, everything settling to pool between his own legs.

And, god, why couldn't Sherlock just come all ready? But he seemed almost...trapped. His hands were tightly balled fists at his sides and he wasn't moving. His breathing had become even more shallow, as if drawing in air hurt him. He was so hard, so hot, in John's hand and John knew he had to be close. So close. But for some reason he just couldn't let go. Or maybe he just needed more. Something more.

Just a little more.

Just a little...

John realized he felt heavy, so heavy, and he let his head drop forward, let it hit Sherlock's right shoulder, let it rest there, just a moment, before turning it, ever so slowly, turning until he faced Sherlock's neck. Sherlock swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing and John watched the movement with rapt fascination, came closer, his breath sweeping Sherlock's cheek and a tick formed there, jaw clenching.

John's head rose a fraction as he let his face brush along the other man's, lips ghosting his skin, not kissing him, just sort of...nuzzling. John breathed him in. He'd never been this close to Sherlock before. He could smell him. A small, slightly hysterical voice in the back of his mind marveled at how he didn't smell bad. He didn't smell like blood and chemicals and death. He smelled...like the night. Like something dark. Something secret. Something...warm.

John drew away, just enough, their noses rubbing past one another clumsily, lips not quite meeting, sort of stumbling past each other. Then there was a moment. A moment of sharing breath. That hot, moist contact of air but not skin, that rested between them. Then John closed the distance, made the connection, his mouth meeting Sherlock's at last. Sherlock moaned then, moaned into the kiss, moaned into John's mouth, the moan, the sound of it, loud, wild, animalistic. Fists falling apart, fingers rising up to clench frantically at John's shoulders, digging in roughly, drawing him closer, needing him nearer.

John responded, his head angling to make the kiss deeper, lips parting, tongues meeting, tasting and exploring and slick and messy and oh so feverish. Sherlock's eyes opened, pupils dilated, meeting John's and that's when he came.

He looked into John's eyes, kissed him, and came apart entirely.

His hips thrust upward uncontrollably, bucking into John's hand as he climaxed, spurting wetly, the next sound leaving him sounding suspiciously like John's name. John kept kissing him, swallowing his name, swallowing the sounds, hand still moving, milking him, soothing him. Sherlock's movements slowed, stilled, and he looked at John. His expression was entirely unidentifiable.

Then his hands rose up and he cupped John's face as he kissed him again. This kiss was Sherlock's. All his own. His fingers threaded through John's hair and he clutched at him as he kissed him. This kiss was gentle, tender, boarding on chaste and yet beneath it was a sort of quiet desperation.

It was the kind of kiss someone gave when they knew it would be their last.

Sherlock pulled away stiffly, reluctantly, and for the briefest of moments John saw something. Something John was positive he must have imagined. Something heartbroken.

Then Sherlock was on his feet. He rose smoothly and exited the room in a flash. He fled. _He fled_. John heard a door close. Not slam. _Closed_. Closed with great care. Then the sound of pipes, the shower clicking on. John got to his own feet. He stumbled. Limped. Momentarily. He straightened, walked to the kitchen, and rinsed his hands off. He dried them on a tea towel. He looked at them. They were trembling.

He raised them to his lips. They were still warm. Still wet. He lowered them, turned, and slowly sank to the floor, the cabinets roughly supporting his back. He sat on the tile and listened to the shower run. His head tipped back and he looked at the ceiling. He drew his knees close and let his head fall forward into his hands.

The curse had been broken.

But something much more dire had taken its' place.


End file.
